Just Another Day
by Sasha Cartwright
Summary: Murphy is kidnapped by a crazed bomber and Connor is left with two choices: let two million people, including his brother, die in an explosion or save two million lives, at the cost of Murphy's life. PLEASE R


By: Sasha Cartwright

"Fuck, Murph," Connor swore as he tripped through the door of the apartment that they and their father shared. "How many times have I told you to get your baseball stuff out of the doorway?"

"Oh, come on, Connor," smirked Murphy, picking up the stray baseball and slipping it into Connor's jacket pocket. "You never know when you might need an extra ball."

"Very funny," his twin glared, reaching in to his pocket, but not removing the orb.

"Come on, Murph," he stated. "We've got to get ready for Da's birthday party tonight."

"I'm way ahead of you," said Murph, getting up from his place on the couch. "I called the bakery by Doc's and I was just going to pick the cake up."

"Just don't let any of the pieces go missing when you bring it home," Connor reminded, knowing his brother too well.

"I promise nothing," Murph smirked, a devilish smile on his lips as he disappeared out the door.

Nearly an hour later, there was a knock on the door.

"Finally," Connor sighed, getting up from the couch, but as he turned the doorknob, instead of his brother, he saw Doc.

"Hey Doc," greeted Connor, "what's the matter?"

"A man c-c-c-came b-b-y the bar and l-l-left t-t-his f-f-or you. Fuck! Ass!," Doc stated, handing Connor a disposable cell phone.

Almost as soon as the telephone hit Connor's hand, it rang.

"Hello," Connor answered, after clicking the talk button.

"You have a very brave brother, Mr. MacManus," a husky voice on the other end stated. "He even fought back when I stuffed him into my trunk.

It sounded like a man who'd lived in a damp cave all his life.

"Who is this?" Connor questioned his mind already on his twin brother and wondering what trouble he had gotten himself into this time.

"Let's just say that I'm a concerned citizen who'd like to see two dead MacManus brothers instead of one," the gravelly voice stated simply with far too much ease.

"If you hurt my brother," growled Connor, "I swear to-."

"Ah, ah, ah," the man chided, as if verbally wagging his finger, "that kind of attitude will only get your precious brother dead faster."

"What do you want?" Connor asked.

"Oh, where to begin," said the voice thoughtfully, as if playing with the idea in his head like a cat with a ball of string.

"What have you done to my brother?" demanded Connor, his anger rising so fast he would have reached through the phone and strangled the man if he could.

"I want you in the old apartment building on Fifteenth and Smith Street," the man replied calmly.

"Oh, and I suggest you do it quickly," he added. "That is, if you ever want to see your brother in one piece again."

Before Connor could issue his blind rage threat, the call ended with a 'click'.

"Doc," stated Connor, sounding more serious than Doc had ever heard him before, "I need you to call Smecker and tell him Murph's been kidnapped and to meet me with an ambulance and a bomb squad at the old apartment building on Fifteenth and Smith."

"S-sure, C-Connor," Doc answered, rushing back to the bar and leaving Connor with the phone and his racing thoughts.

As Connor turned the corner onto Fifteenth Street, he saw the old apartment building with Smecker, the bomb squad, and the ambulance waiting outside.

"Connor," the detective called. "We've found him. He's in the basement, but we got a call from the bomber saying to wait for you."

"All right," stated Connor grimly, walking into the apartment building and down the winding stairs into the lower level.

When he got there, he saw an entire fleet of bomb squads lining the outside of the basement and in the middle of the floor, duct taped to the support beam, stood Murphy.

There was a bad gash on the side of Murph's head, just above his right eyebrow and a slightly deeper one on his neck, a few inches left of his chin, red blood streaming from both, down his face and onto the collar of his dark gray T-shirt.

Despite his predicament, Murphy remained still, through his forearms showed signs of a serious struggle with the duct tape on his arms, leaving thin, bloody cuts on them, though the tape on his mouth remained unmoved.

The one difference that Connor noticed that was different than before was, now, on Murphy's favorite shirt, there was a two inch emerald green clover right over his heart.

Once he glanced up from the floor, Murphy's eyes met Connor's and instantly, a tiny plea for help was evident in the defiant look on his face despite the duct tape on his lips.

Seeing his brother's pleading look, Connor rushed forward to help him, but was stopped by one of the bomb squad leaders.

"Let go of me!" Connor shouted, fighting against the man. "That's my brother!"

"Mr. MacManus," stated the man, attempting to explain the situation to Connor. "If you cross that line, the bombs will be detonated."

Standing still, Connor looked down to see a black octagon form on the floor extending out five feet from Murphy.

Glancing around the room, Connor saw at least twenty bundles of C-4 strapped to the walls of the building, all connected to motion sensors.

There was enough C-4 in that one room to pick Boston up and throw it into the Atlantic Ocean.

As Connor's mind was reeling, trying to figure out the situation, the disposable phone in his pocket gave a shrill ring.

Snatching the telephone, Connor jabbed the 'talk' button with his thumb and put the device to his ear.

"Record time, Mr. MacManus," the gravelly voiced man congratulated.

"You should sign up for the Olympics."

"All right, I'm here," stated Connor. "What do you want?"

"Now that I have your attention," the man stated. "Let me explain. There is enough C-4 in that room you're standing in to take the state of Massachutes into orbit, but you only have two options. Either you allow the bomb to explode and kill close to two million people."

"Or?" asked Connor, desperate for another solution.

"Or, you can disarm the bomb by breaking the activation device," the man explained.

"Where is it?" Connor questioned, knowing that they probably didn't have much time.

"Do you see that clover on your brother's chest?" wondered the voice.

Glancing at Murphy, Connor replied, "Yes."

"The activation device is behind that clover," explained the man. "Seems fitting since you two are Irish, doesn't it?"

"How can I break it?" Connor questioned. "You've got motion detectors on every bomb."

"Those detectors can't pick up very quick movements," stated the voice, "but don't try to run. No human can move fast enough to beat them."

"What can then?" Connor demanded.

There was a long pause on the other end.

Finally, the man answered, "A bullet."

The reality of what the bomber was asking him to do hit Connor like an atom bomb.

In order to save the lives of two million people, including himself, Connor would have to shoot his twin brother in the heart.

"No," stated Connor defiantly. "There has to be another way."

"There is no other way, Connor," the voice assured. "My bombs don't come with an off switch. The only way to shut off that bomb is to let it detonate or to shoot your brother to save the lives of two million people."

Connor shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes, the idea completely unthinkable.

"Your brother is going to die anyway if that bomb goes off or if it doesn't," the man reasoned. "The only difference is that one way he'll be taking two million people, including you with him." 

"No, there has to be another way," stated Connor, praying that his words were true.

"There is no other way," the voice growled, sounding like a demon directly from the depths of Hell. "Saving your brother is not an option! Either you shoot him or all of you die!"

Connor looked around frantically, trying to figure out some way to beat this twisted game.

Unwillingly, his eyes fell upon his brother, still bleeding badly and taped to the basement's support beam.

Meeting Murphy's blue eyes, their whole lives together flashed before his eyes.

They had never been apart and there would be no way that he could ever forgive himself for killing the one person that meant the world to him, but how could he call himself the hand of God when he would sacrifice two million lives so he wouldn't have to take one, the life of his brother?

Looking at his brother, Connor saw Murphy look at him and then look down, as if Murphy knew what his brother was now forced to do.

However, he looked back up and down again, as if trying to tell Connor something.

Following Murphy's eyes, Connor saw the lump in his pocket from Murphy's baseball, still carefully nestled in the folds of cloth.

The thought of having Murphy's things, especially something that he had been bitching about only a few hours before, without Murph, filled Connor's eyes with tears once more.

Then, Connor had an idea.

Glancing up at his brother, Connor pulled the baseball from his pocket.

Fighting against the tape, Murphy gave a small nod.

Instantly, their minds had latched upon the same idea.

Maybe a person couldn't beat the sensors, but maybe a baseball could.

Never in his life had Connor been so nervous as he gripped the orb in his hand and aimed it at his brother's chest.

"Do you hear me Connor?" questioned the voice on the phone, obviously still there, but oblivious to the twins' plan. "Saving your brother is not an option!"

"Yes, it is," Connor stated defiantly.

Clicking off the phone, Connor cocked back his arm and threw the baseball as hard as he could at the clover over his brother's heart.

The ball beat the sensor and plowed hard into Murphy's chest, shattering the activation device, then falling to the floor and rolling a few feet away.

Instantly, the small green lights on the bombs went dark and the sensors shut off.

As the bomb squad confirmed that the bombs were disarmed, Connor stood at the edge of the octagon, surveying his brother with well trained eyes.

Other than the blood and his very pale skin, Murph was fine, his eyes never leaving Connor.

Connor was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Smecker's voice as he descended the stairs to the basement floor.

"Connor," he called, looking around at the room, "is everything all right?"

"Yea," replied Connor, finally allowing himself to breathe for the first time in what felt like forever. "The squad is just checking the bombs."

"We found him, Connor," Smecker stated. "The bomber's call was traced and nearly all of Boston PD was down there. He's not going to bother anyone anymore."

"That's a relief," Connor sighed, just glad that the nightmare was over.

"Mr. MacManus," called the leader of the bomb squad. "The weapons have all been disarmed, you can cross the tape now."

Walking away from Smecker, Connor walked over the octagon's line and over to his brother.

Carefully pulling the tape way from Murphy's mouth, Connor took a long look at his brother, realizing just how close they had come to losing each other.

Yanking his pocket knife from his jeans, Connor cut the remaining tape away from his brother's body, allowing Murphy to fall against him.

Instantly, their arms snaked around each other, pulling brother into brother until they appeared to be attached.

"It's okay, Murph," Connor assured, keeping one hand on the nape of his brother's neck and the other protectively on the small of his back. "It's all over."

"Maybe we could just order delivery from here on in," choked Murphy through a mixture of tears and a breathless chuckle, his arms too wrapped around his brother.

"Sounds good to me," Connor laughed, looking down at his brother, only to pull him in even tighter.

After a few minutes of near silent relief, Connor glanced down to meet his brother's eyes.

"Come on," he offered. "Let's get you patched up."

Murphy simply answered with a small nod, releasing Connor reluctantly with one arm, but both still kept the other arm on each other's shoulders.

Walking to the door, Connor helped Murphy up the stairs and to the ambulance.

As Murphy sat on the tailgate of the Boston ambulance while a medic bandaged his forehead, neck, and arms, Connor stood protectively by, neither letting the other get too far away.

They were soon joined by Smecker with more news of the bomber.

"Well," the detective stated. "Duffy and Dolly just told me that forty-seven Boston police just doubled that fuck's body weight with bullets. He won't be bothering anyone ever again."

"That's a relief," said Connor, obviously glad that that particular part of their life was over.

"Yea," agreed Murphy, sitting still so the medic could carefully stitch the gash in his head closed. "Where do I send the bill?"

"I'm not sure," Smecker replied honestly, "but I bet he owes that bakery something too for all the windows he shot out getting you."

"Fuck!" Murphy exclaimed, smacking his newly bandaged forehead with his opened hand. "We've got to get home for Da's birthday."

"Don't worry," assured the detective. "After you get fixed up, I'll drive you home."

"Thanks, Smecker," Connor stated, extending his hand to the older man, "for everything."

"I'm just glad I could help," replied the detective, shaking Connor's hand and walking over to talk with the bomb squad leader.

Twenty minutes later, Connor and Murphy sat side by side in the backseat of Smecker's car, neither really knowing what to say to the other, the last few hours' events swimming through their minds.

Finally, Murphy asked quietly, "Connor?"

"Yea," answered his twin.

"Thanks," Murphy stated, trying to express his gratitude, but unable to find a word big enough to thank his brother.

Putting his arm around his brother, Connor pulled Murphy close, understanding the words that went unspoken.

"You're welcome, Murph," answered Connor, his own feeling choking him up.

Thinking for a second with his brother alive and well, resting against his chest, Connor had to ask the question that had been burning in the back of his mind ever since he was sure that their nightmare was all over.

"Murph, how did you know the baseball would work?" he questioned.

"You know," shrugged Murphy hesitantly. "I know shit."

Not convinced, Connor's eyes narrowed a little.

"Fine," Murphy surrendered. "I got it from _Deadly Impact._"

"I fucking knew it," laughed Connor, noticing for the umpteenth time how alike he and his brother were.

"Happy Birthday, Da," the twins greeted as they walked through the apartment's door and found their father sitting on the sofa, his eyebrows knitted together, smoking one of his giant cigars.

"Boys, Duffy just called me," he stated, rising from his place and walking over to his sons. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, Da," assured Connor, still keeping his arm around his brother's shoulder, careful not to jar his brother's bruised chest.

Giving them both a close examination, Da grumbled finally, "Some fucking birthday, no beer, no cake…"

"We tried to get a cake," Murphy explained, shooting Connor a quick glance, "but our plans sort of got changed."

His eyes shifting from one son to the other, Da walked forward and put one arm around either son.

"Having you two safe is better than any fucking cake," he stated.

"That's too bad," sighed Murph, extending a small box to his father, "because we got you both."

Taking the cake, Da looked at the red and white icing that read, "Happy Birthday, Da" and smiled.

"Let's eat," said Connor, smacking his hands together.


End file.
